Family Gift
by Lady Salazar
Summary: An attempt at destroying a Horcrux backfires, landing the Trio in the past... 1000 years in the past to be exact. And now, Harry's learning the hard way that he can't always get off scot free with running his mouth.
1. The Mistake

**Disclaimer:****If I owned Harry Potter, I'd pity the bloke. Sadly, I don't.**_**  
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Family Gift**_

Harry groaned as he attempted to sit up - futilely, as his body began to protest vehemently the movement - and took a quick mental check of his condition. He ached all over, like he had the morning after the Death Eaters had nearly cornered them at the Riddle House and he, Ron, and Hermione had had to run for hours to get away, and there was also that distracting - and unfortunately all too familiar - empty feeling around his navel that indicated that he'd again been an idiot and nearly drained his magic reservoir dry.

Fun. Now, what had he done to get in this position? He hadn't done anything stupid since -

Ah, of course. The Horcrux. He'd known it had been far too simple, once they'd finally tracked down Hufflepuff's Cup. Yes, there'd been a great pit of snakes - all very poisonous, not to mention bad-tempered - a head-poundingly complicated logic puzzle even Hermione had been hard-pressed to figure out, and some weird Dark creature that he'd never even heard of that made him refight his greatest battle - oh, how wonderful; The Graveyard, Take Two - but in the end it been far too simple.

And of course, the moment they started getting around to destroying it, the bloody thing self-destructed.

Why Voldemort would rig one-sixth of his immortal life-support system to self-destruct was beyond him, but far be it for the almighty Chosen One to attempt to figure out the most feared Dark Lord since… well, ever. Did that actually mean much? Because really, most witches and wizards didn't remember much about even Grindelwald, and it's hard to fear what you don't know about.

Harry felt a soft hand press on his forehead - Hermione's? - and promptly decided that perhaps "waking up" was in order. He opened his eyes.

A blurred face surrounded by a mess of bushy brown hair swam into view.

"Harry!" she exclaimed, and he whimpered. Not so loud, please. Hermione graciously lowered her voice, handed him his glasses. "I'm so glad you're awake. Ron woke up an hour ago, and I did an hour before that - what did I tell you about protecting me? Anyway, you're still very weak, whatever happened nearly drained us dry - you worst of all."

Harry meanwhile blinked the room into focus, and looked around, startled. Bleach-white sheets and beddings, a slight smell of peroxide… Hogwarts' very own hospital wing. Merlin, he'd been here enough in his six years of schooling, he didn't need to now!

Sighing, he ignored it. Better here than St. Mungo's, where he'd probably end up with press coverage. Bloody reporters still didn't leave him alone.

"Did we get the Horcrux?" he asked instead. "And…" he paused. "Where's Ron?"

Hermione bit her lip. "Ron will be along in a minute, Harry. As for the Horcrux? Well, I'm not sure."

He frowned. "How can you be 'not sure'?" He quoted the words with his fingers, for no other reason than that it would annoy her.

"I'm not sure because I've have to study the remnants of the Cup, Harry," she replied, with the exaggerated patience usually saved for particularly slow children. Then the countenance faded and worry appeared in her eyes. "Listen Harry, we don't know how it happened but somehow, when the Horcrux blew up, it-" She mumbled something he didn't catch.

"It what?"

"It transported us," said Hermione quickly. "Through time."

Harry stared at her, and she flushed slightly. "Hermione, Horcruxes do not inadvertently decide to turn into Time Turners," he informed her slowly.

"That's true," she admitted, "but it happened somehow." The anxiety lit in her eyes again. "Harry, promise me. Promise me you won't-"

But what Hermione wanted him to promise not to do, Harry didn't find out, as at that moment the doors swung open to admit three people. One was obviously Ron with his distinct Weasley-red hair, but the other two….

_For the love of… _Merlin, this had to be a joke. Harry could recognize Godric Gryffindor anywhere, as there were untold numbers of portraits of him in the common room, and if there was one vaguely familiar man with him Harry figured he could venture a legitimate guess as to who he was.

Salazar Slytherin - a tall, black-haired bloke with stormy grey eyes and, yes, some breed of magical snake twisted around one forearm - fixed Harry with a measuring look and a solid sneer. "_A Mudblood, a blood traitor and now… this. A virtual Squib._"

Harry blinked in shock, and then narrowed his eyes as indignation caught up with him. "_Bugger off you prejudiced arsehole_," he hissed.

Literally. _Oops_.

He wished he could say Slytherin's expression was priceless, that the hated Hogwarts founder couldn't have looked more taken aback if someone bludgeoned him over the head with a two-by-four (hmm… tempting). But instead, all he got was a slight widening of the eyes and a horrified gasp from a suddenly pale Hermione.

"You are not of the Slytherin family," Slytherin said slowly, scrutinizing him a second time.

Uh oh. Harry did not like the look the founder was giving him, and so cautiously bit back the retort on his lips.

Slytherin's lips twisted into a smirk, and he turned on his heel. "I believe I have business to attend to," he drawled, voiced pitched low in the same way Snape had spoke in class so you had to strain to listen.

Anger built up in his stomach at the reminder of the traitor. Dumbledore had been no saint - they'd learned that the hard way after he'd died - but he hadn't deserved the fate he'd been dealt.

"_What business_?" Harry yelled after him. "_Stoking your ego_?"

Whether or not Slytherin had heard - probably he had, as Parseltongue generally carried farther than the same in any human language for some reason Harry'd never bothered to find out - he didn't reply, and a second later the doors shut behind him.

"Well," said Gryffindor finally. "That was interesting. Miss Granger, I do believe you left out some things in your explanation. You did not inform us that your friend here was a Parselmouth."

"She did what she thought best," Ron countered instantly.

"I never said she didn't, Mr. Weasley," Gryffindor rejoined. "In fact, it was probably for the best; or would have been." He shook his head.

Hermione stared at Harry with worry in her eyes. "I was trying to tell him not to when you came in…. He woke up a bit later than expected."

Actually, he'd probably woke up when they expected, but running through his personal inventory of possible injuries took a while and he hadn't "woke up" until he'd ascertained that yes, he was mostly okay.

Aside from being magically drained to the extent a levitation charm would probably make him pass out again, of course. Harry wasn't going to say that though.

Instead, he concentrated on a more informative venture. "Would one of you do me the great pleasure of telling me why, telling Slytherin off for badmouthing my friends is a bad thing?"

"Harry!" Hermione scolded instantly, hitting him lightly over the head. "Be more polite!"

"He was badmouthing us?" asked Ron, sounding outraged. "Right in our faces, all because he thought we wouldn't know?"

"I did it to Malfoy," Harry admitted, arching a brow at Gryffindor's amused expression and Hermione's offended one. "But yes. And as to my question?"

Gryffindor sat down on the bed to Harry's left, while Ron took the unoccupied seat beside of Hermione. "What?" he voiced to the slightly disbelieving look Harry gave him. "You expect me to stand? What's the point when there are seats readily available?"

Harry grinned. "Now there's the Godric Gryffindor never mentioned in the history books. Lazy and incompetent… a regular human being."

"Harry!" Again it was Hermione who scolded, but this time Ron joined in.

Gryffindor on the other hand just mirrored the grin. "You and Salazar should get along just fine. He enjoys being insulting as well."

Harry stopped short and shot Gryffindor a dirty look; Ron snickered and got a glare as well. "Apparently he's rubbed off on you as well." He shook his head irritably. "_Anyway _- my question?"

Hermione's face fell, and she bit her lip. "Harry… in general, certain abilities - such as Parseltongue - can only be received through genetics. Only witches and wizards of the Slytherin bloodline have the capacity to be Parselmouths." She held up a hand to stall an objection. "You are an exception to the rule."

Harry snorted; there was an understatement if there ever was one. Bloodline abilities aside, he was an exception to the rule "no one survives the Killing Curse" resulting in exceptions to the rules that stated that curse scars did not form mind links or transfer bloodline traits.

At that point Gryffindor took over. "Mr. Potter, families such as Salazar's are quite possessive of their special abilities. Manifestations of the trait outside of the family is often dealt with quite decisively."

"Wonderful," he drawled. "Am I at least given a day or so to dig myself a hole to hide in?"

Gryffindor's grin didn't falter. Was the guy a closet sadist? "You couldn't dig one deep enough. Still, I think your situation will spare you there. Mind you, there are worse fates than death… especially when the Slytherin family is involved."

Harry suddenly had a very bad feeling and a case of dry mouth. He did _not _like the sound of that.

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**Author's Note: **So here we go - the first part of 4 chapters in which I get my (admittedly belated) revenge on HBP!Harry.

The reason for the high rating is for the future chapters.  



	2. The Problem

**Disclaimer:** **Same as the first part.**

**In this part, Harry once again fails to watch his mouth. Poor him, 'cause this is something he's not getting away from intact.  
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Harry didn't admit it, but he was beginning to worry when even a full day later his magic had not completely replenished. He didn't admit it, but the lack of blatant attempts on his life, despite having revealed his being a Parselmouth, was equally unnerving. And the knowledge that with his reservoir so low, he couldn't properly protect himself without risking suicide via magical exhaustion was worst of all. 

So he'd spent an educationally fruitful day in the library with Hermione, pouring over books she had to cast a translation charm for him to understand. Up until then he'd never had a respect for that sort of magic, but given the quandary they would be in if his know-it-all friend hadn't bothered to learn them, that situation was much rectified.

Very much rectified. He'd wondered how Dumbledore and Crouch Sr. were supposed to know so many languages. The spells actually planted the knowledge of the other language into your mind over time. Very useful.

Harry was taking notes out of a book on common battle magic, Ron was bemoaning the horrid state of middle age broomsticks, and Hermione was alternately gawping stunned at Harry - taking notes! Of his own free will rather than necessity! - and devouring books at a pace that suggested she'd have the entire library read by the time the week was out.

He'd just come across a passage on "spell-weaving" when the relative sanctuary of the library was invaded by their _favorite _founder - and it wasn't Gryffindor. Nope. According to Ravenclaw, their house founder avoided the library like it had the plague, but as much of an affront to Hermione's dignity as that was, it really didn't matter.

What did matter was Slytherin, leaning against the bookshelf with his ever present smirk. "Mr. Potter."

"_Yes_?" Harry never could seem to help slipping into Parseltongue whenever Slytherin was around. Maybe it was that maybe the founder was snaky enough that his human genetics took a backseat. Whatever the reason, it was irritating, because Slytherin found it amusing.

"Your presence is required in the Room of Requirement."

"Well, that's too bad, innit?" said Ron instantly. "Harry's not going anywhere with you, you snaky bas-" Harry trod heavily on the redhead's foot to quiet him. Oh, he agreed, but there was a glint appearing in Slytherin's eyes that he did not like one bit.

"Quiet, Mr. Weasley," the founder drawled lightly. "This is a matter that does not concern you."

"Anything that concerns Harry concerns us," Hermione said staunchly from behind her book.

Why did he have the feeling they were playing right into Slytherin's hands? Because he really didn't like the idea the founder was _that_ good. Sure, he was the master manipulator of the history books, but weren't they supposed to exaggerate things?

…Then again, if Harry was being suspicious, then maybe he _wasn't_ that good. After all, he'd never dreamed that Dumbledore was anything but lily-white.

"Such loyalty," Slytherin remarked, in such a way that suggested he didn't think much of it. His lips curved and Harry felt a jolt of alarm. "Very well then. Come along; my father is not one to be kept waiting."

Hermione started in obvious surprise, before carefully marking her place in her book. Ron openly gawped until Harry stomped on his foot a second time. Harry gathered and tidied up his notes, carefully ignoring the impatient gaze of Slytherin.

"_Well_?" he said finally. "_You_ _said your father shouldn't be kept waiting_…." Damn. Parseltongue again.

Slytherin didn't reply, just turned on his heel and expected them to follow like the arrogant arse he was. Of course, in this case, it was either follow like an obedient puppy, walk ahead like an eager one, or run away – the last of which was sounding really good at the moment, except for the fact Ron and Hermione had inadvertently cut off any escape routes. Bugger.

Harry found it odd that despite the four floors between the library and the Room of Requirement, they didn't see a single student on their way there.

Slytherin sneered at the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy attempting to teach trolls ballet as he came to a stop. The Room was already occupied, the door already present, and it swung open to his outstretched hand. Harry set his jaw and walked in, feeling as though he was marching to his execution, while Ron and Hermione followed at his heels.

Thankfully, the room was not so decked out in green and silver that Harry feared he'd drown in it - in fact it was quite tasteful, though he was no dependable judge in those matters. But the matter was the décor was… bearable, and with the fire burning merrily, it was almost cheery.

Lord Slytherin looked up when they entered and nodded in greeting, his sharp eyes taking in both Ron and Hermione with a single calculating glance before focusing on Harry, taking in his hair, his eyes, his robes, and - most disconcertingly - his magic.

The empty feeling of the mostly drained reservoir magnified for a moment, then subsided.

Harry frowned, and pulled up his meager Occlumency shields. After what Snape had done to his mind, compounded by it's strange natural structure, he would never be able to accomplish much in the defensive variant of the Mind Arts. Still, it made it easier to think more clearly, so it was not a total loss.

The corner of Lord Slytherin's mouth twitched upward - not quite a smirk, but close - and he bestowed upon his son a look of slight mirth.

Slytherin (the younger) met the look with an arched brow, not seeming to understand the joke. (Good, Harry didn't either.) Then he inclined his head slightly. "Father."

"Salazar," the elder wizard said in reply, mirroring the gesture. "Am I correct in my assumption that this would be our little problem and his friends?"

Little problem, Harry thought with a mental snicker. Voldemort would probably call him a "nuisance," but apparently that impression was one shared by all people of Slytherin blood.

"Indeed."

Hermione stepped forward and dropped into a flawless curtsey. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance Lord Slytherin," she said politely. "I'm Hermione Granger. This is Ron Weasley."

Ron mumbled a greeting and sketched an awkward bow.

Aware the impression his made now would probably influence what would happen to him later, Harry thanked his lucky stars Remus had forced him to learn at least the basics of pureblood etiquette, and performed a bow that was politely respectful, but not overly so. The miniscule widening of Slytherin (Jr.)'s eyes showed he'd shocked him, and he preened inwardly. "Harry Potter."

"Aurelus Slytherin," replied the wizard. "Sit."

It wasn't a request, and as Gryffindor said, there was little point in standing when you could sit, much less when it'd piss off someone you don't want pissed off. Harry sat, and his friends followed his example.

"I think you will be relieved to find that due to your situation, our usual methods of dealing with your infraction are out of the question," said Lord Slytherin without preamble. "You've had us in quite the fix, Mr. Potter."

Whoa. Blunt. Harry blinked. No matter the ethics of Slytherin House, the founder's father was as subtle as a brandished wand. "You'll have to forgive me if I don't regret that fact," he said faintly, and yelped when Hermione kicked him in the shin.

She followed it up with a reproving glare. "What my friend _meant_, Lord Slytherin, is that he is thankful you have decided to spare him in this case."

Harry pinned her with as powerful a glower as he could manage, feeling a bit of heat rising in his cheeks - he'd meant nothing of sort, only exactly what he'd said, and both Slytherins were hardly bothering to conceal their amusement.

Bastards.

"Whatever the case," Lord Slytherin continued, "after much thought, we've decided to give you a choice." Why did he not like the sound of that? Oh yes, because Slytherin (Salazar - Merlin, what did Harry do to deserve two of them?) was smirking. Of course, he smirked all the time, unless he was sneering…. "-your first option would be nullification."

"_What_?" Forgive him if he sounded squeaky - Ron and Hermione mostly covered him up with their various exclamations, and there were more appropriate things to say in reply to a comment like that. Like "Have you fucking lost your mind?" or "Do I look like a Merlinbedamned masochist to you?"

Because nullification… well, even Voldemort hadn't stooped so low as to attempt it on Harry. To strip a witch or wizard of all of their magical reservoir, so they were less than a Squib, less than a _Muggle_… a true "Mudblood." It was Just Not Done.

Bloody hell. Death would be better. _Gryffindor, you little bastard, I should have looked for that hole after all. _

"Anything but that," Hermione pleaded, holding Ron's mouth shut. Probably a good idea - he was obviously fuming at the question, glaring daggers at Lord Slytherin. Frankly, had Harry seen a point to it, he'd be doing the same. Maybe they'd both drop dead and the world would become a better place.

"Anything?" Judging by Lord Slytherin's expression, Harry was going to hate Hermione for saying that.

She caught herself. "Is there anything besides that option and death, Lord Slytherin?"

"There is another." There it was - Slytherin's (Salazar's - Merlin, this was confusing) smirk had become a sneer. "Though honestly, I find myself not understanding your reaction to nullification; there would not be much to lose."

Yup, Harry noted, very good idea. Ron had been on the verge of blowing up at the mere suggestion of nullification, and now he looked like he wanted to leap on Slytherin and strangle him. There was a warm feeling in Harry's midriff - he loved his friends.

Woo-hoo. All sappiness aside, Ron attacking Slytherin would be a bad thing - albeit a very entertaining bad thing - so Harry interrupted. "Whether you understand or not hardly matters," he said tersely, "but in any case, given any sort of choice, nullification would be the very last resort."

Why did he have the feeling he had just walked right into a trap?

"Is that so…."

Maybe… because he had. He could kick himself for his phrasing.

"That leaves our second option as your choice." Lord Slytherin looked… well, satisfied: as if, yes, things had gone his way, as if he'd been the one to choose. And rightly so.

Stupid, stupid Harry - now he had no clue what they were going to do to him. Granted, he could think of little worse than death or nullification (though the Dementor's Kiss came close, the dementors had not shown up until around five hundred years after the founding of Hogwarts), but he'd never been all that creative with torture. Kill them dead, that was his way. And then burn them to ash so they didn't get back up. Sometimes in the reverse order.

The chair seemed to have grown bindings, holding Harry in the seat. Or maybe it was just the heavy feel of the "deal" he'd unwittingly walked right into, dragging him down.

"Ron, Hermione…." His friends started. "Go back to the library… and look up 'Temporal Portkeys.'"

Of course they protested. They were his friends, and he required a certain loyalty and moral fiber not commonly seen. But he needed them to put that loyalty over that moral fiber and get the hell out of here. More correctly, get all three of them back into a time where the Slytherin family was thankfully nearing extinction and to threaten nullification (even in jest) made you a wizarding pariah.

Ah… to think he used to despise the thought of being outcast.

Harry knew better now.

He stared down the wand unflinchingly. Merlin, it was a long wand - proof that Lord Slytherin was extremely magically powerful, to the point of needing outside control. Harry had learned after leaving Hogwarts that his own wand should have been a good two or three inches longer in order to stabilize the power he channeled through it on a daily basis, though he was loath to admit it - his and Voldemort's wands were like enough as it was.

Sad thing that at the moment he could do with a much shorter, more rigid focus. Then he might be able to do more than sit there passively waiting for his doom.

Face dead set in his satisfied smirk, Lord Slytherin guided his wand through an intricate pattern - the longer he build up the magic for the casting, the lower Harry's stomach dropped. Shit, this was one powerful spell.

What if there _was _a spell form of the Dementor's Kiss? He didn't think there was… but then why would Slytherin (Jr.) be looking so sour? Of course, it wasn't much of a change from his normal express-

"_Mutatio Femina_!"


	3. Ramifications

**Disclaimer:** You know, this really gets irritating…. See part one if you REALLY have to know.

And now, part three. In which the story begins to earn its rating (well, I'd say it's actually a T, but I am paranoid to the extreme) and Harry starts losing it. Really, you can't blame him… er, her. Whatever. And Hermione is cruel.

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Harry really needed to stop waking up like this. Merlin, just what had he done _this _time? He felt like an intruder in his own body, rather like that time he'd been experimenting with possession and had accidentally-but-not-really possessed Ginny. He still didn't think she'd forgiven him for that… but that was beside the point, and it hadn't made him feel like he'd been bludgeoned all over with a club. 

Literally, all over. He groaned, starting his mental checklist (yay, his magic had finally refilled), only to be interrupted by Hermione's voice.

"Harry?" For some reason she was quiet, hesitant. "Are you awake?"

Ah, he could deal without the all-clear for once. "Yeah-" Then he stopped. What was _up _with his voice? He sounded… girly. He opened his eyes and met with Hermione's face.

"Harry…" She hmmed. "I think you ought to look down at yourself."

Giving her a puzzled look, he did so - and froze. "Wha-what the bloody hell?"

Now Harry was a bit of a strange person. Check that, he was about as far from normal as it was possible to be. But even he, for all his weirdness, was _not _supposed to wake up with two _large, firm mounds_ on his chest! He was not supposed to have… have… "_Tits_?"

Hermione smacked him. "They're called 'breasts', Harry." Then she broke off, a strange look in her eyes.

"I don't _have _'breasts', Hermione!" Harry protested, volume climbing as he began to panic. Merlin, his trousers felt rather… wet. Thickly wet - it wasn't urine. And his stomach cramped painfully. "I don't have bloody _tits_! What the _fuck _happened to me?" To his horror, he could feel his eyes welling up with tears, and blinked them back harshly.

"_Harry_," snapped Hermione. "Watch your language around me! And calm down!" She gritted her teeth, calming herself visibly. "What is the last thing you remember?"

Harry swallowed, pulling up his Occlumency shields, tossing his hysteria aside for the moment, and frowned at their condition. They hadn't deteriorated like usual - the opposite, actually - and something had woven itself through the weaker sections. "Touching" the silvery threads, he decided it felt familiar - result of a powerful magic.

"Mutatio Femina," he murmured, eyes shooting wide in realization. "No. No no no. He didn't. Hermione, tell me he didn't!" His stomach lurched and he felt the tears welling up again and he tried to - damn. No good; he was crying, and he hadn't cried in years.

Or was that… "she" was crying? Hermione's arms went around him… uh, her, and to Harry's internal chagrin, that was all it took for the hysteria to come rushing back.

Several minutes later, Harry managed to reign in his (yes, it was _he_! He was _male_! Even if he had… girly parts…) emotions and calmed his breathing. Really, it was no wonder depressed people generally had poor health, if they did this often….

"Hermione," he started hoarsely, "what was the point of… doing this?" He shuddered, and then again when those two… "large, firm mounds" on his chest bounced. (He did _not _have tits!) "And how can we reverse it?"

Long silence. Somehow, Harry got the feeling when it was broken it would by bad news.

His bushy-haired friend sighed, ruffling his hair. "The gender-switch spell, 'Mutatio Femina' in your case, is reversible… for the first cycle after the change. After that, the magic of the transformation anchors itself, and any further attempts will kill. And why?" She shook, rubbing her own breasts into his back. Hoo boy, any other time he would have loved this position - best friend or not, Hermione was well-equipped. "We'll talk about that later okay?"

Whatever. Just keep doing that.

Then his (yes his!) stomach cramped again, and that sensation of gooey wetness between his thighs redoubled. His mind caught up with Hermione's words then and he paled, putting two and two together. "…Cycle?" Merlin, couldn't the fates find another whipping… boy? This just wasn't fair!

"You know…" She was blushing. Her voice gave it away. "The menstrual cycle? The prerequisite to PMS?"

Harry called it BGS, "Bitchy Girl Syndrome." It was strange enough seeing Ginny with blood running down her legs; it was worse when you could feel it welling up and then - gush! "That means I have around a month?" he asked, trying not to whimper. This was _gross_!

"Well," she replied, "it depends. The first cycle after the transfiguration is random, and can occur…." She broke off, and then took Harry by total surprise.

Really, any other time having a female stick her hands down your trousers would be very welcome. Did girls do this all the time in the dorms? Merlin, he needed to get some spying charms in there!

The hand was retracted just as suddenly, fingertips dyed red with blood - bright, fresh, _smelly _scarlet blood.

"Oh, Harry…" He wondered at the strangled note in her voice, like she fighting back something. "I'm so sorry…."

He struggled out of her embrace, half reluctantly, and met her expression of pity - and something else. "Hermione…?"

"You don't have a month. You're stuck."

Stuck. There were very few magical effects and spells that could not be reversed. The Killing Curse for one, unless you were into Necromancy, and that never worked out right anyway. Even the "Permanent" Sticking Charm could be reversed, though only by the caster unless you managed to replicate the specific magical signature - which was difficult, but still possible. And he… she… was stuck?

No fucking way. This was not possible. This was not possible! And - damn, she was NOT going to start crying again!

Hermione didn't seem to realize his… her…- whatever! - predicament, distracted by whatever had lit in her eyes and a certain awe. "I knew Lord Slytherin was extremely powerful, but the amount of _control _it would take to accomplish such a feat as this would just be… mind-boggling!"

"I don't much care," Harry ground out harshly, snapping her out of her daze. And he - she! - didn't. What freak of nature trained enough to gain that sort of control so as to give people undesired sex-changes anyway?

With a sigh Hermione stood up and extended a hand for Harry to do the same. "Come on. Let's get you presentable."

"Why?" Other than the streaks of red dribbling down legs that'd be nice on someone else and staining his trousers, Harry was as presentable as …she usually ever was.

Uh oh. Hermione was… shaking (?) again, and that had to be a bad sign.

"Do me a favor, Harry," she ordered, choking on… whatever. "Conjure me a nice brush."

Okay, weird. "I don't have the control to do wandless conjurations, Hermione," Harry replied slowly. She _knew _that - he had too much raw power, and she didn't mean that in an arrogant way.

Power versus control - it was an old problem. Squibs, with their miniscule reservoirs, could not use wands, but could utilize what little magic they had in any imaginable way through wandless casting. Usually none tried though, as doing so generally drained them dry and killed them, but the point still stood. Then there were people like Harry him - er, herself, with enough power to potentially level London (the modern one), with such soddy control that she had difficulty with a simple wandless Summoning Charm.

And Hermione asked for a conjuration. Wasn't she the person who kept reprimanding them for using magic for trivial matters?

"Just humor me," she implored.

What could it hurt? Murmuring the incantation under his breath and twisting his wrist, Harry all but jumped out of her skin when the magic did _not _jerk out of control, but flared and left a small hairbrush in his hand.

Harry looked up at his bookish friend in askance.

She returned it with her by-now trademarked "Harry don't blow up I'm just telling you the truth" look. "Do you remember the project we did on magical marriages?"

What did that have to do with wandless conjuration that shouldn't have been possible…? "It's a form of bonding, only possible between a male and a female, forming a - no." Harry felt the room began to haze out. "No, no, and no. You can't possibly mean-!"

Another lurch hit his stomach, and - Merlin, he hadn't been turned into a girl, he'd been turned into a bleeding hosepipe! Even _Cho _hadn't been this bad! Granted, to Harry's knowledge the girl hadn't been gender-switched by the father of a Founder and then subsequently engaged.

Engaged. Merlin, that was… yelch. He was _heterosexual_! He was _not _interested in guys - let alone _Salazar Slytherin _of all people!

"Yes, I can possibly mean," Hermione tutted, seizing the conjured brush. Where had the pity gone? Now he missed it, as the know-it-all witch grabbed her arm and dragged Harry off the bed and to a chair situated in front of a mirror. And wait, was she _snickering_?

Hermione's reflection frowned, tugging at the short black hair sticking up in all directions - and then it shifted to a strange grin. "I've wanted to do this for _years_." And she whopped him over the head. With her wand, of course.

With a sensation that reminded her uncomfortably of lying on his back in the snake pit in the midst of retrieving Hufflepuff's Cup, Harry's hair took on a life of it's own, lengthening, lengthening past her shoulders, past her… um, chest, and only then slowing and coming to a halt at her waist.

Why could the person in the mirror have been another random girl? Because Harry knew he would have been in lust at first sight. The perfect figure, big breasts but not too big, satin black hair that _wasn't _trying to defy gravity, porcelain white skin… and the eyes. Narcissistic though it be, Harry loved his eyes. No one had eyes like she did.

She. A moment of self-admiration later, Harry was forced to conclude that she made one very sexy girl.

"So much better," Hermione determined, dragging the brush down the black mass. Displaying a very girly side Harry didn't know her friend had, she spend a good ten minutes playing with her hair, combing until it was silky smooth.

Harry had always wondered why it took girls so unbelievably long to get ready. But who's to care? There was a looker in the mirror.

"Come on," she said finally, setting down the hairbrush. "Let's get you dressed."

What? _Why_? "Do I have to?"

"Stunned" was not Hermione's look, as she stared back and forth from the buck naked Harry to the buck naked reflection. Her jaw worked furiously. "Y-you!"

"Ow!" Okay, outward femininity apparently wasn't enough to save one from Hermione's overly righteous indignation. Pity.

* * *

Okay folks, one more part to go. And trust me, if Hermione's bad, Ron and Slytherin are worse. 

Yup. Worse.

--Sal


	4. The Lesson

**Disclaimer**: If you haven't gotten the message by now… get help.

And now the conclusion. Harry learns that wishing people dead can backfire (though he probably already knew), perversion is not always amusing (especially when it's you on the receiving end), and that dark, evil, and depraved is sometimes just desperate… and depraved. Cue the hysteria, people - she (he, damnit!) has finally lost it. How can you not when Slytherin smiles?

Oh, and Hermione's even crueler.

* * *

Narcissism - excessive self-admiration and self-centeredness. Harry didn't quite think she fit into that mold. Hermione seemed to disagree, the prude.

The two round, firm mounds had been bound - loosely so they still showed - and a potion that strangely _didn't _taste like refuse had been forced down her throat to deal with the bleeding. Thankfully it dealt with BGS as well, and Harry didn't feel like emulating a hosepipe anymore.

If only they had a potion to deal with tradition too. "I am _not _wearing bum-stuffing, Hermione!"

"It's not bum-stuffing!" she snapped. "It's called a _bustle_."

"It's a bum-stuffing. I'm not wearing it. Nor am I wearing a bloody corset." _Or a dress_, she added silently, but dresses weren't all that commonly worn even in the medieval wizarding world.

Hermione threw her hands up in the air in irritation. "Fine! Be that way! But don't come crying to me when Slytherin has a temper tantrum and takes it out on you!"

She thought Harry _cared _if Slytherin was happy? Maybe so that she'd know to do the opposite, but - honestly, this was Salazar Slytherin, the man she'd gladly dose with poi-

A scream broke loose from her lips as her legs gave out and Harry crumbled to the floor, holding her head. Hermione took a startled step back. _Oh, thank you ever so much for the support. Stand aside while something has a grand old time pounding my head in. _

Of course, the pain - more like forks of lightning - subsided then (the irony a good thing for once), and Harry panted a bit. Logic, logic - okay, there was no sign of an outward injury, so the pain was mental in nature. (Wasn't it always? Someone do her a favor for once - make it the Cruciatus, she preferred it.) Occlumency barriers were - wait, wait, _wait_.

She watched in shock and - loath as she was to admit it - slight fear as the gleaming silver threads twisted and threaded more thickly through the shields guarding her mind from outside influences. It spread, like a parasite, until even the stronger portions - the ones "behind" the scar - were all but engulfed.

Gah. Only Harry could have parasitic silver thread in her mind that was Giving. Her. A. Migraine.

"Harry?" started Hermione gently. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Harry replied promptly, ignoring the look the response garnered with the ease of much experience, and rose to her feet once more. "Nothing but parasitic silver mind-worms….."

"Confused" was not Hermione's look either. In fact, confused was an understatement - she looked concerned for Harry's mental well-being, which was nice enough but not all that useful. But the comprehension that followed fit much better. "You were contemplating causing him harm."

"Well, yeah…. It'd make the world a better place." Surely she knew that. Yes, it'd possibly destroy the space-time continuum, possibly destroy the world, but in this case Harry would look on the bright side. "And what does that have to do with anything?"

Hermione sighed. "If a witch and a wizard are bound by marriage - or engagement - then they cannot intentionally bring their partner to harm. Magic won't let them."

"What about Zabini's mother?" Harry countered.

"Why do think she was never brought to court?" asked Hermione, exasperated. "She must have found a way around the bonds somehow, but there was no way the Ministry could prove that."

The Ministry of Magic couldn't even prove it's own incompetence. Even after five years of war in office, Rufus Scrimgeour was _still _trying to convince Harry to assist him in his quest to make the Ministry look good. A kamikaze quest at that. Still, the man would be better off sticking to hara-kiri in Harry's opinion - it'd be better for the people.

Still… "A way around the bonds?" Hmm… maybe it was the backside. She struggled with the urge to leer at the mental pictures that provoked. Zabini's mother was one sexy woman… but not so much as Harry's reflection of course.

And Hermione would so smack her if she got the slightest inkling of Harry's thoughts.

"You'll never find one," said Hermione frankly, tossing the nearly-forgotten bustle aside and shuffling through a rack for an appropriate robe. "This is Salazar Slytherin we're talking about, and Zabini's husbands were all arrogant, inbred idiots. Slytherin is not an idiot."

But he is arrogant and inbred. With a stick up his arse the size of Lord Slytherin's wand.

Hermione paused in her rifling and pulled out a bottle green robe that reminded Harry of the one she (he at the time) had worn to the Yule Ball. Yay - it matched the eyes. Gotta love the eyes.

"Here. Mrs. Weasley had the right idea in going with this color…"

Harry pulled it over her shoulders and paused to inspect the mirror. She looked good. Hopefully Slytherin wouldn't agree. After all, this was the medieval era - weren't they of the belief that women should be the feminine version of Dudley to be beautiful?

She shivered at the mere thought.

But maybe that wasn't true in the wizarding world. After all, Harry'd worn enough clothing suited to the overly obese to recognize the fit, and this robe wasn't made as such. The opposite, actually.

"Let's go," said Hermione, smiling - as Harry's stomach turned to ice, not that the other girl could know. It was all well and nice to play dress up - it was quite another thing to play girlie into front of… of…. Um. Not going there.

But the bushy bookworm took Harry's hand quite firmly - loosen up a little, she was _delicate _- and tugged her over to the door before Harry could gather her wits enough to struggle. Inconveniently, the door swung open upon their approach, and Ron - who must have been napping outside the door - looked up.

And went bug-eyed. And red-eared. And - Merlin, was Ron checking her out? Yuck. Ron was her friend, yes, but… ew. Gross. Harry ducked behind Hermione, who was visibly stifling a grin. No fair! Good friends didn't laugh at each other's pain.

Thankfully, that was enough to snap the redhead out of his daze (and make him imitate a tomato), unthankfully when he opened his mouth it was worse. "If I'd known you'd be this hot I'd've changed you ages ago," he said with a leer.

Please. Harry whimpered. Please let him be _joking_. That was just wrong. Ron shouldn't find her hot. She could find herself hot, but Ron couldn't. That was just _wrong_. And - stop _giggling_, Hermione!

"Slytherin's expecting us," she said between snickers. "We have to go. Coming, Ron?"

The only place Harry wanted to go was back into her room, but Ron and Hermione - she was really beginning to revise whether she thought of them as "friends" - once again played the part of escorts and closed in on her, cutting off all escape routes as they trotted her off to wherever Slytherin was.

"Why are you going along with this anyway?" Well, the question at least was better than the "Who are you people and what did you _do _with my friends?" Harry wanted to ask.

Hermione gave her an odd look. "Well, it's not like we - or you - have much of a choice. And it could be potentially useful."

Useful? "Excuse me if I fail to realize the usefulness of bearing me down with matching leg shackles to a _male _- and a male who's been dead for over a millennium at that!" Calm down Harry, complaints seem much more rational when you're not yelling them.

Ron looked like he personally agreed, but of course, the object of the redhead's affections didn't so neither did he.

"Actually, Salazar Slytherin is never recorded as having died," Hermione argued. Could that be because the records in the Dark Ages weren't up to snuff? Of course not! "We could use someone like him in the war, Harry." She smirked suddenly. It was such a strange sight Harry found herself too bemused to form a retort. "Anyway, can you imagine Voldemort's face if Salazar Slytherin was to come to the future - and fight against him? It would _ruin _him."

She had a point there. But the fact remained - how the hell did she plan to convince Slytherin not to keep her stuck here? And… Voldemort was Slytherin's heir, wasn't he?

Wait - to have an heir necessitates reproduction. Reproduction necessitates…

"I am _not _sleeping with him!" Harry yelped as the implication (that should have been obvious) sank in.

Ron tripped and fell on his arse while Hermione just choked. On a mad laugh, no doubt, since she seemed to find all this so funny.

"Sl-sleep? With _Slytherin_?" Ron looked ill at the mere thought, rather like Harry did.

"W-well…." And Hermione - well, she looked half nauseous, half amused as hell. And she had a scary glint in her eyes - it really made Harry regret all the perverted things she'd pulled on her. Like that time she'd tricked her into using one of Fred and George's Patented Erotica Charms. "He _will _have the responsibility of continuing his line…."

Harry felt her stomach lurch in a way that had nothing to do with BGS and everything to do with Complete And Utter Disgusting-ness until Hermione began snickering.

"This is the wizarding world, Harry," she informed him dryly as they began moving again. "You don't have to do things the natural way… unless you want too."

Lurch. Harry didn't want to do it. Period. But it was too late as Hermione maneuvered her into a sitting room that didn't exist 1000 years in the future, where Slytherin waited.

And for the second time, Harry was forced to hold her stomach as she was directly, unabashedly Checked Out. The stormy grey eyes roved all over, but paused with deliberate emphasis on her chest - the round, firm mounds drawing extra attention - her mouth, and the… crotch area. And then his mouth quirked, apparently pleased.

Why oh why did these things happen to him/her/whatever?

"Mr. Weasley. Miss Granger. Leave."

No! _Don't leave me! _Neither of them telepaths or Legilimens, Ron and Hermione paid the thought no heed, though Ron did shoot Harry a sympathetic look as he was dragged from the room by his ear. Well, that was nice and all, but it really wasn't all that -

…And _how _did Slytherin move that fast? One second, sitting down and checking her out. The next, right up in her face and - "_Get your hand **off **of my bum_!"

Why couldn't he be the asexual ice cube he acted like…? Why couldn't he be less, well, horny?

And why the _hell _couldn't Harry speak to the bastard in _English_, for once!

Slytherin smirked. Of course Slytherin smirked, he didn't know how to do anything else. Besides sneer, that is… _what_? "-I would. Sadly, it's mine as well, so I think not."

Harry could only stare dumbly for a second, sick. "_You've got to be kidding me_… _Anatomy doesn't change the fact I am **male**_… _Doesn't that bother you_?_ In the slightest_?"

A chuckle. Were all pureblood egomaniacs this… _expressive _with their… um, partners?

"Hardly," Slytherin drawled. His breath smelled like mint. Why would his breath smell like mint? Did he chew peppermint leaves or something? "Your situation, while not common, is far from unheard of. It is only the reason that sets this apart."

That was news. They did this often? How messed up were these people?

A sudden jerk had Harry off balance and - hey, he tasted like mint too. Wait. Taste? She was too shocked to protest, too sickened to fight.

He was _kissing _her. Salazar Slytherin was snogging Harry Potter. And it was _sick_! (…And he tasted like mint. Weird, that.)

Slytherin took the initiative in pulling away slightly. Of course, he still hadn't removed the hand from her bum, and she tried to squirm out of his grip - to no avail. It only resulted in him looking down at her with a smile - really, seeing it make her wish he'd stuck with the smirk. It was disturbing… like Voldemort in a tutu. "Perhaps it could be taken slowly," he commented. "Let it not be said that I am not thoughtful of those that matter."

And considering at that time he dragged her face down for another snog, and that hand was doing things Harry only did to Ginny when they meant to shag, she was left wondering about Slytherin's time expressions.

And then he dropped her.

_Bastard. _

Harry's bum impacted the floor with a thud - and Merlin, Slytherin was _heavy_. _Slowly_? "_Get the fuck off me_!" Harry had never been bottom before. And she was rather certain she wouldn't like it. Rather like she hadn't liked it when Ginny had thought _she _was going to be the dominant one (just like her mother, she'd said, not that Harry had wanted to know).

Slytherin did pause for a second, arching a brow in obvious amusement - and yes, Harry was relieved to see him smirk. One smile was enough to knock her over - another'd probably knock her senseless. But he didn't move - well, that was a lie. Yes, he moved, but not the way she wanted him to. Like, say, _off_?

Damn. She blinked, once again taken off guard when the smirk blossomed into a smile.

"_I think not_."

Whew, Parseltongue was kinky. Wait. Not kinky. Not at all. Yuck.

Looking at Slytherin's face, Slytherin's smile -Harry suddenly wished she'd thought to keep her mouth shut.

* * *

**END**

And now, do you think Harry's learned his lesson? 'cause s/he's verily screwed.

This is Lady Salazar, signing off. Ta.


End file.
